L'Italia di Lovino
Part I

Characters: Romano (Lovino), Spain (Antonio), Italy (Feliciano/Veneziano), Germany (Ludwig), America (Alfred), Hungary (Elizaveta), France (Francis), Belgium
Rating: T+
Warnings: Suicide, blood, language
Pairings: SpainxRomano, slight GerIta

"Why can't you be more like your brother?"

He'd heard it a million times before. He should have been used to it by now, but he still hated it.

Ever since Grandpa Rome had taken Veneziano and left him behind, Romano knew that something had rooted itself within him. Back then, when he was young and rather proud, of course he couldn't see what it was. But with every word of criticism, every degrading comment, he felt it growing, expanding, darkening. Italy is so much cuter, why are you always angry? Again and again.

And then Spain.

When Romano watched him ask Austria for Veneziano, he'd recognized that feeling. When Romano was his second choice for marriage, oh how well he knew it.

It was self-loathing.

The older he got, the more his self-esteem sunk until he was sure it was miles beneath earth's crust. He showed it to no one; it would just make him seem more bothersome. And yet…

Earlier that day, Romano and Spain had gotten into one of their infamous fights. He couldn't even recall what they were arguing about; that was irrelevant. Antonio hadn't noticed Romano was in one of those moods. Romano yelled at him. Spain said something he shouldn't have said. Lovino did the same. But whatever he'd called him, told him, didn't tell him, Spain had said those words, clear and simple.

Why can't you be more like your brother?

That was the final blow. He'd heard it enough. All these years, these hundreds of years, he couldn't take it anymore. And from Spain, from Antonio, the person he cared about most, the one Lovino thought understood him, the only person in the world who could…

Romano stared, wide-eyed and unblinking at the moonlight piercing his windowpane. White water spilled into his room, onto his bed, onto the floor. Seeing was making this so much harder. If it were dark, he could imagine this were a dream and drift off into oblivion. The moon was his witness. The moon would tell everyone what happened to Lovino Vargas on March 18, 20XX and the moon would cry for him, mourn for him in a way no one else could.

Tears ran down his pale face. It hurt so much, oh God it hurt so much. He forced his hands to push harder. This will all be over soon please please please…Choking on his gasps, his hands met his stomach and the cool metal touched his innards like poison. And it began to weep, thick red tears escaping Lovino's abdomen. He felt the warm liquid like needles, all over his hot hands and punctured stomach. Coughs racked his small, weakened body violently, blood running down his lips and tears met tears in the clouded, rosy puddle growing beneath him.

He was hated. Pitied. Chastised. Derided. His life was a living Hell, and this was the only escape Romano could find.

"Ciao, bella mondo…" a voice rasped into the night.

He had to apologize.

Antonio felt awful to say the least. He really shouldn't have compared Romano to his brother, it wasn't fair. It's just, what Romano had said (What did he say again?), it really bothered him…Spain shook his head. That was no excuse, especially with what Lovino had replied with.

"You're right."

Then he'd turned and walked out, leaving Spain feeling like he'd just punched a baby. The look on the Italian's face could only be described as absolutely heartbroken—it made Spain want to grab him and pull him into a big hug. So, Antonio decided he would say sorry and they would make up and eat tomatoes together and play with his turtles and…

Smiling to himself at the very thought, Spain rapped on the door of the Vargas home, calling out for Lovino and Feliciano. No one answered. His smile faltered and he dropped his hand.

"Feli is probably at Alemania's house…But where could mi tomate be?" he wondered aloud. He took hold of the doorknob hesitantly and gave it a small turn. It was unlocked.

"Lovi…Are you here? Lovinito?" Spain said. The lights were out. It was night, of course, so maybe he'd gone to sleep. Spain made his way upstairs to Romano's bedroom and frowned when he saw a vague figure lying on the floor. As he knelt down in front of Romano(?), he thought he felt something wet. His eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the darkness, so he reached out and shook his shoulder. Why was he sleeping on the floor?

"Wake up, Lovinito, I'm sorry…" Antonio gently pushed Romano onto his back and saw red. There was so much red. He looked down at his knees—he was sitting in a puddle of blood. His shaking hand ran down Romano's torso until it reached a solid object protruding from his stomach. He wrapped his hand around it and gasped lightly—a knife. There was a knife sticking out of Lovino.

Spain took hold of him and tried to say something, but his voice was lost. He was so confused. He could not comprehend how, or who, or what.

Romano's eyes fluttered open slightly, murky and clouded. They focused on Spain, barely, it was so hard. His mouth opened slowly and Spain mentally prodded him to say something, to let him know he was okay and he would live, or even call him a "tomato bastard" and laugh at him for falling for this prank. Because that's what it was, right? It had to be, Romano couldn't die.

"I…I lo…" Romano choked, blood pooling in his throat and spilling over his pale lips.

Finally, Antonio found his voice and screamed.

Germany turned his eyes from Lovino's motionless body to Spain, who looked equally lifeless. He hadn't said a word since Ludwig and Feliciano found him rocking Romano back and forth in his arms, staring blankly at the wall. They'd entered the house, wondering why Spain's car was in the driveway and the lights were out inside, when they heard Antonio shout Lovino's name. Italy had bolted up the stairs, Germany following close behind, wondering why the ditzy Italian never ran that fast while training. So there he was.

And here they were.

A small, not very well-known Italian hospital, so it would be easier to keep their identities as nations a secret. Italy had insisted vehemently that they go to a "big hospital full of super-smart people," but even in a private room, it would be too risky with so many people lurking about in the halls. It wouldn't have made a difference, in any case. Romano was dead.

Dead.

The word echoed in Ludwig's head. It was so…strange. He was used to seeing humans die, that was natural. But nations? That was rare, and it was a tragedy for the rest of them, especially knowing the way Lovino had died.

He had, unfortunately, missed any vital organs, which would have at least killed him sooner. Instead he's passed from massive blood loss—Spain had found him over an hour after he'd stabbed himself. Germany knew the older man probably pinned the blame on his own tardiness, or more likely, on the fight they'd gotten into right before Romano had ended his life.

"Sp—Antonio," Germany said, aware of the nurse taking sheets of linen from a closet nearby. "This isn't your fault. This has to have been a long-term thing. He's had a painful life."

Spain looked up, surprised, and attempted to give Ludwig a small smile. When it didn't seem to be working, he nodded and turned his attention to Feliciano. As expected, he hadn't stopped crying.

"I-it's all my fault…!" he sniffed. "I n-never got to s-say nice things about him…A-and all I did was annoy him…"

Sighing, Ludwig placed a comforting hand on Italy's shoulder, who in turn grasped on desperately to his shirt in a half-hearted hug. His sobs grew louder, and the nurse cast them a sympathetic glance before leaving the room.

Oh, Lovi looks so peaceful, Spain thought. It's like he's sleeping. Sí, that has to be it, he's sleeping. I'll wait here for him until he wakes up…

It was way too bright.

He blinked once. Twice. Sitting up slowly, Lovino stared at his surroundings.

Nothing.

So startlingly white and empty, yet it seemed to stretch a million kilometers. Where was he?

Was this heaven?

Or…?

"Lovi?"

He jerked his head around. Who was there? It sounded like…"...Spain?"

Romano stood cautiously and cocked his head to the side. This was Spain, all right. At least, it looked like Spain. The Conquistador, with the flamboyant hat and all.

Antonio cracked a huge smile. "It is you! Only, you're so much older! How did you get so big? Was I really gone that long this time?"

Confused, Lovino said, "Uh…no, I'm not…Well, you're not…You know what? I don't know what's going on. I committed suicide, huge sin, you know? Shouldn't I be in Hell or something? And what the fuck are you doing here, are you some kinda memory?" He stared skeptically at the red-coated brunet, folding his arms. "You're supposed to make me feel guilty, right?"

Spain's smile disappeared. "I thought I told you to watch your language."

"I'm not a kid anymore, I can do whatever I goddamn please!"

"You know…now that you're older, it is different," he said, stepping closer to the elder of the Italian brothers. "You're so cute, Lovi."

"H-hey, what do you think you're doing?"

Antonio placed his hand on the small of Lovino's back, forcing him closer despite his protests. Romano tried pushing away from him, but he was too strong. "Why, Lovi," he replied, "I'm taking what's mine."

Feeling something wet against Spain's clothes, Romano yanked his hands back.

"B-blood?" he panicked, suddenly forgetting Spain's behavior. "Are you hurt?"

"Relax," Antonio placed a small kiss on the top of Romano's head, brushing against a single obnoxious curl and making the younger man shudder. "It's not my blood."

Lovino caught only the wicked smile on Antonio's face before looking down to see a gaping hole in his stomach and fainting.

The funeral was planned to be small and private. Well, planned. Over 100 nations and quite a few world leaders announced they would be coming…discluding Spain. He was, understandably, not his cheery self. During world meetings, he couldn't seem to focus, especially since the topic was mainly what to do about the death of South Italy. His northern brother never spoke—he sat close to Germany, staring at the hands in his lap.

Even America was quieter than usual. Romano had been annoying as hell, but then again, all the nations were in their own way. Everyone was used to having two Italies, and with Lovino gone, it was like waking up with one hand.

"—aly. Italy!"

Feliciano jumped, nearly knocking over his seat. "I-I'm sorry Germany I promise I'll work harder and…oh! I, uh, I…sorry!" All nations stared blankly at Italy, then turned to the one who had addressed him—America.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Well…I was going to ask if anyone has noticed his absence in Southern Italy, but I guess it's not right to push it—"

"N-no, no, it's all right! I want to help out all I can; Romano is my brother after all!" Italy said, waving his hands about frantically. Germany handed him a glass of water, and he took a few noisy sips to calm himself. Everyone exchanged glances awkwardly, and China offered candy to a few countries, who, for once, accepted. Spain, however, had been staring at his watch (tomato-shaped, which wasn't helping his situation) the entire meeting, much to the annoyance of his fellow countries.

"Ve~ Thank you, Germany," Italy smiled sadly at his friend, who nodded and blushed slightly in reply. It was difficult for him to see Feliciano like this—so quiet, earnest, reserved. "Well," Italy continued, looking back to America, "I had to tell Boss, of course. As of now, he's the only one who knows, though other prominent government officials will need to find out sooner or later. I…I don't know what's going to happen to our people though, b-because…because…" Italy trailed off, then burst into tears. Ludwig sighed. Italy had been doing so well, but he couldn't say he hadn't expected the Northern Italian to lose it.

Feliciano dropped into his seat and buried his face in his hands. "I-I'm going to be alone! I don't want to be alone! I can't r-run a whole country by m-myself! R-Romano, fratello, come back! P-please, I'm begging y-you!" he cried. Hungary, Germany, and France stood immediately. Italy had gone far beyond losing it.

"Feli, sweetie, please stand up…" Hungary gently pulled on Italy's shoulders, but he would not budge. She and Germany turned to America, who nodded solemnly.

"Italie, venez, come; we're going to take you home," France said, placing a hand on Feliciano's back. He still refused to move. Left with no choice, Germany lifted the smaller man into his arms in one swift motion. They left the conference room, Hungary following close behind. France turned to check on his lethargic Spanish friend, only to find his seat empty.

"Dis donc," Belgium said suddenly. "Where's Éspagne?"

Francis groaned in frustration. He had a pretty good idea of the answer to that.

A/N: Whooo happy story. Review if you'd like, for it brings joy to my inbox. I told my friends this when they started it, so it's only fair I tell anyone who reads this: It has a happy ending. This story seems awfully cheesy to me…oh well.